


Let Your Colors Bleed And Blend With Mine

by spockandawe



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Complicated Relationships, Emotional Baggage, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Relationship(s), Wire Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 18:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16101407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: Chromedome doesn’t trust you, not like he used to. You still don’t know exactly what provoked him into rewriting your mind, but you… can make some guesses. Whatever it was is out of your reach now, but the damage has clearly been done. But despite that, he keeps reaching out, and you keep letting him. Despite that, what you have now is more than you ever expected to have again. More than you ever expected towantagain.Still, no matter how well things are going, it takes you aback when Rewind comes to your quarters. Alone.





	Let Your Colors Bleed And Blend With Mine

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/178470295271/let-your-colors-bleed-and-blend-with-mine)

Life, against all odds, seems to be improving. You wouldn’t have thought that spending significant time under Rodimus’s command would merit any positive description, never mind under Megatron’s, but still… Improving.

Even more unexpectedly— Chromedome. Things aren’t— They aren’t what you used to have. What you used to have died millions of years ago. What was left died much more recently. You’re painfully aware that you can’t really trust him, not anymore. That’s still fresh and unfamiliar. Even— Even _after,_ before, you’d never really stopped counting him as someone you could trust. It's gone, and that still hurts.

What’s worse is that Chromedome plainly doesn’t trust you either, not like he used to. You still don’t know exactly what provoked him into rewriting your mind, but you… can make some guesses. Whatever it was is out of your reach now, but the damage has clearly been done. But despite that, he keeps reaching out, and you keep letting him. Despite that, what you have now is more than you ever expected to have again. More than you ever expected to _want_ again.

Still, no matter how well things are going, it takes you aback when Rewind comes to your quarters. Alone.

He doesn’t bother with greetings, just immediately begins with, “You want to frag Chromedome.”

You seriously consider shutting the door in his face. You don’t, if only because things with Chromedome are still so new and fragile, and you don’t want to ruin it all just because his conjunx isn’t fit for polite company.

You don’t say a word. Rewind stares up at you, his arms crossed. His camera is recording, but you refuse on principle to admit that it bothers you by asking him to turn it off. The silence is awkward, but again, _you’ve_ done nothing rude.

He says, “You can, if you want to. Which you do.”

Privately, you wonder how Chromedome will take it if you send him footage of his conjunx acting like this. He might plausibly take it as an attempt to drive a wedge between the two of them, but he’s historically been at least somewhat willing to recognize when his conjunx is being inappropriately rude.

Rewind seems to be waiting for an answer, so you force yourself to keep your voice cool and say, “Presumptuous of you.”

He waves that off. “We talked it out.” Without your input. That… stings. Though does that mean that Chromedome _wants—?_ But Rewind is already pressing on. “There’s conditions, of course. So you can frag him. But only if you use _my_ spike.”

It takes you a little while to understand. In all fairness, you’re distracted. You agree, of course. What else are you supposed to do? You never thought, never expected, never even _hoped—_ But you have to manage your response carefully. You can’t look overeager, can’t give Rewind any leverage to lord this over you, can’t give him any excuse to sabotage your standing with Chromedome. Let’s do this now, he suggests, and against your better judgment, you agree.

So it’s while you walk in silence back to his quarters that your processor returns to that condition. _His_ spike. For a moment you have wild thoughts of Ratchet joining you in the berth, but no, that’s even more implausible than you being invited in the first place.

It’s because Rewind was built as part of the disposable class, of course. There aren’t many disposables left alive, these days, and it wasn’t polite conversation even at the time, but it’s common knowledge that those mechs were built without… nonessential parts. _Recreational_ parts. You even remember a Senate proposal to build them without mouths, and that motion was only defeated by a very slim majority. You knew several disposables who had deep-wired interfacing hardware added to their frames after the war made the government regulations unenforceable, but that would have been a very personal choice. If Rewind is telling you to use _his_ spike, clearly it wasn’t something he wanted for himself.

So even though you’re embarrassingly off-balance, you’ve formed a few slight expectations by the time you reach their rooms. It all feels like it’s for nothing the moment you see Chromedome. In most company, you’d trust your control over your face and frame, but he’s known you so well for so long— You hold your field tight under your plating, and can’t feel anything of his either, but that means nothing, not after what you’ve had. If your nerves are showing, he’ll be able to see it, and you’re rattled enough that you can’t imagine they _don’t_ show in some way.

At least he looks nervous too. Less nervous than you, but. Still. The way he waves is a little tentative, and he doesn’t say anything out loud. You’re watching his visor, watching the set of his shoulders, trying to read every last detail from him you can, when you’ve been actively avoiding looking this closely in your more casual conversations. Would you have more knowledge of what you’re facing if you’d done that? Or would you have sabotaged your chances by pushing too hard, too soon?

Despite that all, you can’t help examining his hands from the corner of your optic. The needles aren’t primed in any visible way for normal mnemosurgery, but if he does try to use them, there will be a moment of warning— And you need to stop thinking about that. You _want_ to stop thinking about that. You’re being hopelessly naive, but you just want this encounter to be what it is on its face.

Beside you, Rewind clears his throat. Which is a human tic, and relies on organic parts he doesn’t have, so he purposely vocalized that sound. Probably just to annoy you. You suppress a burst of irritation. You wouldn’t put it past him to prod you into anger just to make you upset Chromedome.

Though you probably can’t get away with ignoring him either. So you hesitate, just long enough to be on the edge of rude, and then look down at him. And you just about choke. He’s holding a spike. When? _Why?_

No, you know the why, at least. “That’s for me, I suppose?” You don’t quite manage to keep your voice smooth and unruffled, but you don’t do terribly, all things considered.

Chromedome clears his throat— _vocalizes_ clearing his throat— and you gladly take the excuse to look back at him. “Sorry, I don’t know how much he explained.”

“Enough,” Rewind says. Inaccurately.

“I think I have the general idea,” you say. To Chromedome. “Is there anything else I should know?

Chromedome, of course, glances down at Rewind. Who you suppose you’ll have to put up with, at least for the moment. He’s watching you too closely for your tastes, but he just shrugs. “Just keep your spike casing sealed. This has a magnetic base, easy enough to work.”

For a moment, you hesitate. But, well. “And my valve?”

Rewind looks sharply up at Chromedome, and something passes between them. You’re not sure if it’s comms or just long intimacy, but after a moment Chromedome says, “I think—”

“Not while I’m here,” Rewind says, and the hint of an edge in his voice gives you more satisfaction than it should. “I’m not just sitting here and watching you frag _his_ array.”

Oh. “You’re staying,” you say, your voice flat.

Chromedome winces slightly, but Rewind looks completely unimpressed as he eyes you. “Didn’t you realize?” He reaches out to rest a possessive hand on Chromedome’s hip, which you pointedly ignore.

“You must have forgotten to mention it.” You need to stop. Chromedome’s discomfort is palpable, and you already knew Rewind would be happy to goad you into sabotaging yourself. But still— “And I suppose you’re planning to record the entire thing?”

“Is that a problem?”

But Chromedome reaches down to touch his arm, and says, “Rewind.”

It shouldn’t feel like such a relief to have Chromedome take your part, even in some small way. But it does, especially when Rewind sighs and says, “I don’t have to record.”

You— can’t tell if that’s a hint of regret in his voice, and you absolutely do not want to consider what those regrets may or may not be about.

Remarkably, it’s the _less_ awkward option to take the spike from his hand and attach it to your pelvic plating. You hesitate for a nanoklik before activating the magnets in the base, right over your own spike casing. It looks… wrong. There’s nothing clearly off about it, nothing strange about the proportions, and even the colors aren’t a bad match for your own. But it’s still not your spike.

And you realize something. “There’s no sensory feedback.”

“Nope,” says Rewind. “Why bother? I wasn’t built with the receptors.”

You know. And you also know that it’s perfectly possible for a doctor to add them later, when installing an interface array, but you’re not giving him an excuse to argue with you. You do feel the beginnings of a headache beginning to throb behind your optics. Keeping your voice very, very level, you say, “And you don’t want Chromedome to use my valve. So tell me, what exactly am I getting out of this?”

Chromedome, at least, looks apologetic. Rewind is less so. He waves dismissively at you. “It’ll work out, stop whining.”

“Rewind,” Chromedome says, and again, you’re grateful for that little hint of reproach in his voice.

Rewind heaves a heavy ventilation. “You have an EM field, you have sensory wires, you’ll be _fine.”_

You ignore Rewind after that. Try to ignore him. You’re not going to let him ruin this for you, even though you’re sure he’d be more than happy to do so. You do your best to just focus on Chromedome as you step closer and reach out to him. It’s almost like— before. It’s not the same, not what it used to be, especially when you can’t stop keeping half an optic on where his hands are at all times. But it’s still _Chromedome._

“EM field,” you say, quietly, and he understands.

And he doesn’t say anything in front of Rewind either, which is a kindness you hadn’t really expected. You hesitate for a moment, and lean in, his arms coming around your back as you turn your attention inward.

Distantly, you’re aware of his hands on your plating. You can feel him touch your back, sure and confident, even though you’ve lost track of how many frame changes both of you have had since the last time you were intimate. He finds old familiar sensitive seams and new ones, working out the secrets of your frame so easily that it’s almost like you were never apart.

You focus on your field. You’ve worked _hard_ over the years, pulling it in as close as you can manage, making it opaque, unreadable, _untouchable._ No matter how emotional you are, no matter how hurt, no matter how distracted, it stays tucked in tight under your plating. That control was hard-won, over a period of millennia, and once you pulled it in that close, you never had cause to open it up again.

Until now, apparently. And it says something about your judgment that it’s _this_ that persuades you to relax some of that control. It’s not easy, remembering how to let your field spread wide, brushing against Chromedome’s, catching tiny little traces of Rewind’s— You push that away with some annoyance. It takes a conscious effort to release that control and to keep it released. You’re standing motionless against Chromedome with all your attention on keeping your field open, and it’s difficult not to pull it back tight against you.

Chromedome is patient and unbothered. His hands are drifting across your back, toying with the joints at the base of your doors, stroking along the panels, occasionally dropping low enough to slip inside your hips. The feeling of his fingers on those wires makes you shudder, even distracted as you are. It’s been so long since you were touched there. Your own spike pings you, and belatedly, you place a manual block on your spike and valve covers. You won’t give Rewind an excuse to call this off now, you _can’t._

When you can spare a little attention from your field, you realize your optics went offline without your conscious command. Even more surprisingly, you realize that doesn’t bother you. Your helm is resting on Chromedome’s shoulder, and you turn your head just far enough that you can mouth at his neck cabling. Not— Not a kiss, not quite. You can’t decide if you want to kiss him or not, and you can’t tell if you’d want it for yourself or to spite Rewind, so you push the decision away.

Instead, you force yourself to focus on the heat of his frame against yours, the feelings of his hands on your plating. You never thought you’d feel that again, and pathetically, you find yourself wondering how you ever managed to give it up. Viciously, you cut off that train of thought, and instead reach around Chromedome’s waist to pull him more tightly against you.

Your spike—Rewind’s spike—bumps against Chromedome’s hip, and you feel him shiver against you. Your array pings you again, more urgently, and you disable those alerts. You can’t afford to pay attention to that if you want to somehow wring an overload from this experience. Chromedome’s hips rock against yours, more deliberately this time, and the lack of feedback from the spike is… strange, but you suppose you’ll have to get used to it.

Now, you do bring your optics online. You lean back a little, so you can watch Chromedome’s face as you slide a hand between his legs and press it against his array panel. His visor fritzes, just slightly, and you catch yourself smiling before you can help yourself. You move your hand against him again, more firmly, pressing the heel of your hand to his plating, slow but steady.

You hardly realize you’re speaking until the words have already left your mouth, but you find yourself saying, “I’ve missed this.”

You’re mortified, first of all. And second, you’re afraid Rewind will take it as a deliberate jibe and use it as an excuse to call an end to the proceedings. But all things considered, you really would prefer him to think it was an attack rather than actual sincerity. Perhaps, you can even manage to convince yourself that’s what it was.

Chromedome, mercifully, doesn’t reply directly. He’s watching you, even though you’re avoiding direct optic contact, pretending to stare at his— at his chest, maybe, you don’t know. His hips rock into your hand, still lazy and unhurried, but you can feel his plating heating under your fingers and his field warming against yours.

One of his hands rises to cup the back of your helm and for one awful moment, you freeze, waiting for the sharp stab of mnemosurgery needles. You almost immediately dismiss it as a foolish fear, try to suppress the reaction in your frame as your field jerks back in, under your plating, but it’s too late to hide all of it. Rewind might have missed it (you will tell yourself as forcefully as possible that Rewind absolutely, definitely missed it), but Chromedome was too close, he would have felt your reaction in your field even if he didn’t see it. This is why you don’t _use_ your field. _This is why._

You’re cursing privately to yourself, distracted, trying to force your field to expand again, and half-certain someone is about to call an end to this. But Chromedome raises his hand a little further, away from the back of your neck, and presses you forward against his frame. Gratefully, you set your mouth to his neck again as your field eases back out, brushing against his again. His configuration isn’t what it was the last time you were together, but you still remember that he was sensitive _here,_ and that cable was always sure to get a reaction— And after a few nanokliks, daring, you press one kiss to the side of his neck before moving on as though it never happened.

Now, you turn your attention more fully to Chromedome’s array. His arousal suffuses his field, brushing against your field with a heady, beating pulse. You’d forgotten the particular feel of _Chromedome,_ soft against your field, but heavy in a way that makes you want to let it wash over and blanket you. You trace your fingers over the little near-invisible panels of his array, feeling every action echo through Chromedome’s field into yours.

And you’re jolted out of the moment when Rewind says, “Open up, Domey.”

You stiffen, offended, angry at Rewind for interfering and angry at yourself for forgetting he’s here. Your field wavers and tries to withdraw. But Chromedome is already sighing, a quiet wash of warm air from his vents, and his panel slides open under your fingers.

You take his spike in hand as it pressurizes, because you don’t know when you’ll get this chance again. With this to focus on, your field stabilizes and evens out. Chromedome’s array is still so painfully familiar, just like the last time you saw it, all the contours of his valve, the weight of his spike, almost like the last time you felt it was last week instead of millions of years in the past. But it’s difficult to savor that when you can’t forget that Rewind’s optics are still on you. You can feel them practically burning into your plating in a way you can’t set aside and ignore.

When you think you can keep your voice level, you say, “I was under the impression that this encounter— would _only_ be me and Chromedome.”

“You were wrong,” Rewind says, much too cheerfully for your taste.

But it helps to feel a pulse of apology through Chromedome’s field, and you remind yourself that his hands are still on your frame, he’s still here with _you._ You run your fingers along the length of his spike just to make him shiver. His hips twitch forward, and his spike bumps into yours, still eerily sensation-free. But Chromedome makes a quiet little noise that makes your spark flare with satisfaction. His hands drop to your aft, pulling your hips into his again. The heat in his field and the feeling of his frame against yours, here and so real, that alone almost makes up for the lack of feedback.

And you lean in close to Chromedome and say, “Do you want me to—?” You lick a stripe up the side of his neck as you stroke his spike, and because you already know the answer to that half-spoken question, you already _know him,_ you sink to your knees, watching his face as you go, savoring the way his visor flickers and his field flares with excitement.

“No,” Rewind says sharply, just as you’re about to take Chromedome’s spike into your mouth.

The rush of bitterness in your field must be obvious to both of them from this close, which is mortifying, but at least your reaction is matched with a flash of disappointment from Chromedome. His field pulls in even faster and harder than yours does, and your optics flicker and reset in distracted surprise. But no, no _distraction,_ you fight your processor, trying to pull your thoughts into order, trying to find something you can say to Rewind that won’t turn Chromedome against you. You don’t have much success. You consider saying something anyways, but when you glance upward, Rewind and Chromedome are exchanging a silent look, and you have to turn your optics away.

You still can’t tell if they’re using comms or not. And it isn’t that long (it just feels like an eternity) before Chromedome shifts minutely and you hear Rewind sigh. Chromedome’s field spreads again, washing against your sensors with palpable heat. His hands are on your shoulders, you tell yourself. They never really left you. That’s enough that you manage to force your field to expand again, flaring out to match Chromedome’s.

You do climb to your feet, and you can tell you’re moving too stiffly, but you’re not going to stay there on your knees in front of _Rewind_ until he tells you what you can and can’t do again. Thinking that just to yourself sends resentment washing out through your field, and you wince, but Chromedome pretends not to notice. You know you shouldn’t let yourself go on _appreciating_ him like this, but you can’t bring yourself to stop.

Instead of commenting on your state, he says (quietly, to _you_ ), “I think we should take this to the berth.”

You still don’t quite trust your vocalizer, but you do manage to smile for him. You lean in again, your hands over his shoulders, chestplate to chestplate. You kiss him, once, right on his face, then again, right under the edge of his mask— That spot is still as sensitive ever, and when you lick it, Chromedome’s vocalizer spits static and his field pulses pleasure at you.

And you don’t look at Rewind as you step back and turn to the berths. That wasn’t for _him._ Of course.

As you pass him, he says, equably, “You’re lucky you’re so pretty.”

You stiffen, offended and speechless for a moment. You glare at him, not bothering to hide it, and you don’t want to react to him, you _shouldn’t_ react— After this long of an acquaintance, he finally brings himself to compliment _something_ about you, and he chooses your _frame?_ Of all the things—

Chromedome catches your hand before you can do something unwise, pulling you along with him towards the unoccupied berth. “You are very pretty, you know.”

Fine, then. You glare at _him_ instead. But his field is still there, enveloping you, warm relaxed ease, good humor, apology— and you almost stumble over your own feet at the unmistakable feeling of _fondness,_ of _affection—_

You don’t know what to say to Chromedome, so you don’t even bother looking for something to say about the amusement you can feel in Rewind’s field. Which he isn’t even trying to hide, you note. No, you’re only focused on Chromedome. Chromedome’s hand, still around yours. The way he looks at you as he sits on the berth and leans back, parting his legs. His array, with his spike still pressurized and the biolights around his valve pulsing, waiting for you. His hand on your waist and the heat and anticipation in his field as you settle yourself over him.

The only thing to mar the experience is the way you can’t _feel_ it as you sink into him. As Rewind’s spike sinks into him. It shakes you out of the moment, which isn’t helped by the little pleased noise you hear from the other berth. It helps to feel Chromedome’s hands, one on your waist, one on your arm, his grip on the edge of painfully tight as your hips move flush with his. He isn’t looking at you, but only because his head has fallen back on the berth. Even from this angle, you can see his visor glitch and flicker whenever you shift your hips against him. You’ve hardly done anything to him yet, but his ventilations are still hot against your plating and his field beats against your sensors, urgent and wanting.

You could go slowly. You can’t bring yourself to. You never thought you’d have this again. You weren’t sure you’d ever want it again, you were _certain_ that he wouldn’t— Your processor tries to turn to an analysis of all the improbable factors that led you to this point, but no. You refuse. Right now, you want all of your attention on Chromedome, all of it on _this._

So instead of lingering and teasing, you shift your weight so you can take his hips and hitch them higher, and drive hard into him. He gasps and tries to say something, his vocalizer glitching out into static before you can make out any words. But you know him too well to worry that there’s anything wrong. He clutches at your arms as you move, his field fluttering against yours, full of pleas for _more._

You don’t go quite as fast and hard as you might. Instead, as soon as you’ve found a comfortable rhythm, you shift your hands so that one supports his hips. The other one moves to his array. You stroke his spike, once, but his biolights— You never forgot how they looked, but you’d forgotten how _good_ they looked on him— The lines of his biolights irresistibly draw your optics to his node.

When you press a finger to his node, rubbing little circles in time with your movements as you frag him, his reaction is everything you could hope for. He makes a sharp wordless noise, arching against the berth. You can’t take your optics off him. You drink the sight in, lock the memories away. Everything, _all_ of it. The lack of feedback from the spike feels less important now, with everything you get to see and feel. The heat of his frame, the heat of his _field,_ they’re both overwhelming. His hands move unsteadily up your arms to your shoulders, fingers slipping into the joints and tracing lines along your wiring. You remember everything you had, before, but there’s so much that you’d forgotten.

Rewind, of course, can’t resist the urge to ruin the moment. “Frag him harder,” he says.

 _No,_ you want to say, but you bite it back. The answer is still no, of course, but you’re not going to be the one who kicks up a scene.

Perhaps you can bring yourself to go slowly after all. You drop your pace, little by little, draw your finger away from Chromedome’s node— not all the way, just enough to be a tease instead of any real contact. You continue ignoring Rewind, and try to watch the way Chromedome twists and arches under you, his field full of urgency and need. Your finger is barely touching his node, it only really does him any good when he arches his hips hard into you, and you think could spend a very long time just watching him struggle to get that contact.

Rewind, though, can’t leave well enough alone. He boosts himself up onto the berth beside Chromedome’s head while you do your best to act like he isn’t even in the room. You keep your optics locked on Chromedome. After the urgent frenzy of those first moments, without any feedback from— from Rewind’s spike, you should have been able to pull yourself back under control, but that calm and focus escape you, no matter how you try to center yourself. You can’t turn your attention from Chromedome, and you’re fighting the urge to give him _more, harder—_

Rewind says, “Isn’t he good?”

You accidentally look at him, just in time to see him stroke Chromedome’s finial, casually possessive. And you hear Chromedome’s ventilations hitch underneath you and see him turn his head into Rewind’s hand, which doesn’t do your mood any favors. Still, even then, it’s difficult to hold onto the sour feeling, it slips away from you, drowned in wanting and need. And Chromedome’s hands are still on you, in you. Even while Chromedome leans into Rewind’s touch, he hasn’t forgotten you, his hands still in your shoulders, stroking deep, sensitive components. You shudder, involuntarily, as his fingers brush against one of your bearings.

But no— You’re not focusing like you should be able to. That should make you uneasy. Suspicious. Even upset. But you can’t hold onto those thoughts long enough to actually feel those emotions. Everything gets washed away in arousal, steady pulses that disrupt your thoughts before they can be completed. You ought to be bothered, you think. You _would_ be bothered if it was anyone but Chromedome. Maybe you ought to be bothered anyways.

It takes you much too long to realize that those waves of need are coming from outside of you. You’d hardly noticed Chromedome’s field, it was so wrapped around you. But now that you’re looking for it, you can feel it, feel the deliberate pace as it washes against your sensors, feel the way it lets the heat in you build and _build—_ You almost overload, right there, but manage to fight it back for the moment. You— have questions, you want to ask things, this was never anything Chromedome was able to do deliberately, _before._ But every moment that passes, it becomes harder and harder to find the words to use.

Rewind is watching you. He has one arm wrapped around Chromedome’s helm and is leaning against it. They’re almost visor to visor, both of them, looking at you. It’s unfair how unaffected Rewind sounds when he mildly says, “I told you he was good.”

And now, you can feel the traces of Rewind’s field all around you. More heat and need to it than you would have expected, given how little he’s been involved. Though— You wonder if that was the point, if this is what it’s like for him every time, if Chromedome does _this_ for him every time—

You fall into overload with your optics glitching in and out and your vents pouring off heat. You shake and _shake,_ and you can’t stop thinking, thinking that your array is still locked away and untouched, thinking about Chromedome’s fingers still so deep and careful inside you and how long has it been since you even thought to worry about needles, thinking about both their fields beating against yours, inexorable and irresistible—

The first thing you see when you come back to yourself is Rewind, curled forward over Chromedome’s helm, tense, with his field flaring hot and loud against your sensors. Overloading, you realize. You’re still half-dazed, and your hands are still on Chromedome, your hips still pressed to his, but all you can do is watch Rewind shudder, his hands still possessively on Chromedome’s frame. You need to finish, you need to help _Chromedome_ finish, but it’s hard to look away from Rewind, overloading without a single touch.

It isn’t until Chromedome shifts under you and murmurs, “Prowl?” that you remember what you ought to be doing. It isn’t hard to bring him to overload, he’s halfway there already, and you’re right here, _in_ him, and you can rub his node and drive into him like this is millions of years ago and you can’t imagine wanting anyone else, and he reacts the same way he did then, just like you remember, and he cries out underneath you as he tips into overload.

Then, of course, there’s plenty of time to remember where you are. _When_ you are. Memories and habit desert you, and you pause where you are, unsure of what to do next. You pull your field back under control, tucking it safely behind your plating. Untouchable, unreadable. Just how you like it. You draw back far enough that Rewind’s spike slips from Chromedome’s valve, so you can detach it and set it aside. Rewind’s arms are wrapped around Chromedome’s helm, and they both seem oblivious to you, looking at each other in a way that’s hard to watch. Now, you suppose, it’s time to make your excuses and go. But your mind deserts you and your vocalizer fails you, and you hesitate for a nanoklik.

That’s long enough for Chromedome to reach up with one arm and wrap it around your waist, pulling you down half on top of him. You stiffen instinctively, trying to push away, glancing at Rewind, expecting some kind of cutting remark or rebuke. But he only watches you placidly, and Chromedome’s arm stays where it is around you.

Slowly, by degrees, you settle yourself on the berth beside them. Impossibly, you think this might be even more awkward than when Rewind made you the offer in the first place. You stay where you are, trying to brute-force your frame into relaxation, fighting the urge to make up some meeting or appointment and leave _immediately._ Rewind is still watching you, his arms still around Chromedome but his optics on you, which is part of the reason you don’t go. Not with _him_ looking.

And one of Chromedome’s hands is on Rewind, but the other one is on you. And while you’re still lying stiffly where you are, wondering if you should go, he turns to look at you too. He’s smiling. You were never sure how you knew when he was doing that, but he _is._ Smiling at _you._ That’s surreal enough it almost makes you wonder if any of this is even real, or if it’s just a very vivid dream.

If it’s a dream, you would have dreamed a more tolerable Rewind, you’re certain. _This_ Rewind meaningfully resets his vocalizer, audibly, and waits for you to turn your head from Chromedome to look at him. He watches you silently for a few long nanokliks, and then turns away, reclining back against Chromedome’s chestplate. “Next time,” he says, “I’ll let you use your mouth.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/178470295271/let-your-colors-bleed-and-blend-with-mine)


End file.
